


L’amour, c’est comme ça

by cuneifire



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 20th Century, France and England have the world's worst allyship, Historical Hetalia, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Somme Offensive, World War I, i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-26
Updated: 2018-02-26
Packaged: 2019-03-24 04:08:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13803102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuneifire/pseuds/cuneifire
Summary: The first thing to truly drag France out of his sleep deprived stupor is that England is bleeding.England is bleeding, England is his ally, and his whole world is falling to pieces.So of course, the first option is to annoy him, flirt with him, and then maybe fix his wounds.





	L’amour, c’est comme ça

**Author's Note:**

> Title translation- Love, it's like that  
> I swear, usuk is my OTP but these two are all I can write recently. Oops.

July 2nd, 1916

The first thing to truly drag France out of his sleep deprived stupor is that England is bleeding.

            “Fucking hell”, he is saying, wiping his lips with his already dyed red sleeve, stomping his boots against the dirt, glaring. “Fucking hell, I cannot stop bloody _bleeding”_ He rasps out in a repetitive manner, coughing and then reloading his rifle, leaning on it for support, knee braced against the edge of their trench and kicking up an unseemly amount of dust in France’s face.

France pulls his gaze away from the decimated country side to stare at his long time mortal enemy.

“You’re ruining my uniform, _tu godame disgracieux.”_ France says, because it’s true- at this rate, his uniform is also going to be coated in blood, along with dirt. And, as per usual, it is all England’s fault.

“-It’s not” England coughs “-My fucking fault” he coughs again, hand not gripping his rifle digging into the dirt of the side of the trench, nails scratching rock and crumbling soil. “-That you are such a fucking piece of useless crap, that I have to bloody bleed my entire fucking army out and you get to just sit there-“ He sits down “-Like the fucking useless homosexual frog you are.” He finally gets out, spitting blood and just barely missing France’s boots.

France blinks for a few seconds, marvelling at how England possesses the ability to be this much of a prissy brat this early in the day. He’s leaning against the trench wall now, boot heels dug stubbornly into the dirt, glaring up at France, lips in a stern line and eyes steely.

            France kneels down, smiling with only a hint of ego and running his hand through England’s hair with a considerable amount of condescension, tilting his head to stare England in the eyes and ignore the look England gives him when he opens his mouth.

“ _Mon ami,_ you generals are incompetent, your military in ruins, your infantry almost defenseless, and yet you sit here insulting me. Have you no priorities?”

            “Apparently not, it seems. For some reason I fail to fathom, my boss decided in was in our best interests to help _you-“_ And here he spits out the ‘you’ as if this is all somehow France’s fault, “-In your bloody fucking thousand year debate with bleeding Prussia- or Germany, fuck if I care- over that _fucking_ stretch of bloody awfully named land that fails to mean anything to me. So yes, it is all your fucking fault.”

France is very, very tempted to wring England’s, as he would say it, ‘bloody damn well neck’ , for appearing to completely forget that they had an alliance before the war (although part of France doubts he would’ve acted upon that, he’s half certain the only reason England joined the war was because of Belgique.) But he doesn’t, because England is technically his ally and that would be counterproductive, because England is closing his eyes now, staring out at the air above the trench, where yesterday there were bombs but now there is just an abundance of _foutu_ dust.

            And for a brief moment, England does not say anything, just stares at the other side of the trench, rubs his eyes to see better in the early dawn. He is trembling, almost, unless France’s eyesight has diminished along with his thirst for war.

“France-“ He is saying then, hands cramped over his shoulder, eyes half open. “France-“ He chokes out again, this time his hand shooting out of grab France by the collar, pulling France towards him with the half-dead look in his eyes that France has not seen in England’s eyes in long, long, time.

His voice drops to a whisper as he talks. “They’re all dead.” he says, staring France straight in the eye. “They’re all dead and I didn’t do anything to stop them from dying. And I- I am” He stops, taking in a breath before continuing. “I do not know, France, what I am doing here.”

            And England is staring at him, and is he- is he _crying?_ France never thought of England as one to cry much (-he’d never cried after besting France in any of their numerous battles, and any man with a heart would weep at France’s defeat to such as bastard), much less to someone mutually agreed to be his long running worst enemy.

But England is crying, though not loudly, just shuddering silently with his eyes snapped shut, occasionally opening them to stare at the barren patch of dirt between his feet. He’s gripping the bloodied patch of cloth over his heart like a sinner grips the cross, digging his teeth into his lips until that start bleeding too. You’d think he'd know the first rule of losing extravagant amounts of blood, which would be that you avoid trying to lose more blood, but no, apparently England lacks even more brains than France previously thought.

            This is does not change the fact that England is still crying, and France is doing nothing but stare at him, paralyzed.

It occurs to him to sit here, to watch England cry. In past ages, he would’ve done that- in past ages, he would’ve taken a photo and laughed until it was dusk, and then gloated later until England declared yet another war on him.

            But that is not the case, a fact which does not fail to bewilder him.

(And somewhere in the back of his thoughts he can see England kneeling- over him near Verdun, swearing and calling him an idiot as he wrapped his wounds and told France to shut up and stop crying, because it was not doing them any good.)

            He considers reminding England of that occasion, and using it as an excuse to laugh at him now, show how the tables have turned, but he doesn’t, because England is biting his lip, is not making any sound or comment as he stares emptily at ground in front of him, lost in thought. Because they are allies now, as odd as it seems, that their rivalry of past cannot hold steady when England’s losses bear a weigh on his own. The past almost seems hollow, in the face of this.

“I am- I am the greatest empire to ever rule the seas-“ England says, drawing him back to the cold trenches, gritting his teeth and shoving his boots to the floor to push himself back up, and France _really_ wants to shove him now, because even when he’s soaking the floor red he still has the ego of a megalomaniac with a gun. “And yet I falter at fucking _military_ strategies. At military strategies the bloody French somehow managed to do better.” England appears to be talking more to himself now, managing to shove himself until he is leaning against the side of the trench, head bowed, blood dripping from his lips onto the dirt. France doesn’t bother to be insulted, he’s heard worse, especially from England.

            Instead, he leans close, wrapping his arm around England and throwing England’s arm over his shoulder for support.

            He can feel England stiffen up at the almost friendly embrace, but he apparently lacks the strength to push France off.

“Is there anything you need?” France says at a low voice, because he knows sometimes no human supplies can stop a country from bleeding, but there are times where the façade aides.

            England does not answer for a long, long time, instead staring at the ground (or at least France assumes he is staring. His hair hangs in front of his eyes, so France cannot see them).

Eventually, be bites out “I could use a cup of tea. Two sugars.” And he laughs, trembling with a thin smile, only then turning to look at France with an almost sadistic joy in his own misery.

            “I do not think we have that. There are some coffee rations though, would you prefer that?” France asks, almost smiling back, and England coughs with a laugh, wiping his lips before spitting out “Over your dead body, you bloody heathen.”

“Your loss. It’s the only thing keeping me awake, even if it tastes like your cooking.”

            “You fucking bastard! My cooking is brilliant!” England reaches over to hit him, but suddenly clutches at his chest, falling to his knees. “Shit- still bloody bleeding- fuck”

“Angleterre? Are you-“ France cuts himself off, because of course he’s not alright, he lost fifty thousand men yesterday to that uncivilized brute Germany. “ _Un second, mon ami_ \- I’ll be back.”

“Oh great. Just leave me here, why don’t yo-“ He’s cut off by another fit of coughing as France walks steadily towards whatever medical supplies they have left and-well, it’s not a sight to behold. Half a roll of gauze, not a drop of alcohol, a few useless bandages of varying sizes, and an extravaganza of used and bloody bandages packed below the meager supplies.

            France grabs the gauze with a decisive spin of his heel, running back to where England is still sitting, staring up at the sky with pain in his eyes. “About bloody time you-“

He’s cut off by the sight of France holding one meager half roll of gauze, and instead sighs with depression. “They really used up all the medical supplies, didn’t they? Well- I suppose that’s good, my boys can die and I cannot.” He seems to resign himself, staring at France with an utterly hopeless look in his eyes.

            France walks over, England gazing at him with a look that France recognizes very well, languishing with a hint of pining. (Mostly languishing though, and the pining is probably repressed anyways.) He almost looks confused, his lips parting as if he is about to ask a question.

France does not let him. “Shut up and take off your shirt.” He says, and then cannot help laughing a bit.

            “Fuck you, you perverted frog.” England says, the familiar confused looks in his eyes leaving for hard-glazed persistence that France knows even better. Despite his insult, he tilts back his shoulder to help France slowly roll his jacket and then shirt off, glaring all the way.

“I cannot help it, Angleterre. You look simply ravishing coated in blood and dirt.”

            England continues to glare. “For all your claims to being the capital of fashion, you aren’t looking so fancy yourself, you know. Maybe you should have stuck with the blue and died. At least then you would have been able to say you went out in style.”

France pulls back to tell him how wounded England’s words have made him, but he accidentally hits England instead, palm striking right near the wound in his chest. England bites back a noise and grits his teeth.

“ _Merde!_ Angleterre, are you alright?” France exclaims, concern met with a very harsh glare from England.

            “Just put the fucking gauze on.” He says, biting his lip now, gazing down and slouching against the trench wall with a wince he tries too hard to hide.

France pauses, regarding the gauze and England’s wounds with a calculating look. Despite being under the fabric of his jacket, England’s wounds still run the possibility of being infected, and they don’t have any alcohol –for drinking or medicine (oh, what France would do for a glass of wine right now) or much clean cloth.

            “You owe me for this.” France says as he pulls off his kerchief and water bottle, running water over the cloth. “My poor _choix de mode_ is going to be ruined by your angry unfashionable blood all over it.”

“Fuck you.” England says, seeming to simply lack the energy to come up with a better reply, which annoys France because seeing his little England all flustered like that always makes it more amusing to tease him. It also means he might black out, which is not the most ideal option either.

            So France runs the cloth over England’s shoulder wound, cleaning off the blood the best he can (his poor, poor, kerchief), ignoring the way England is squeezing his eyes shut and gripping France’s arms as if he were a man falling off a cliff on the last ledge of safety. France is almost glad they didn’t have any alcohol for his wound, seeing his reaction.

A part of France is shocked at his reaction to England being wounded, shocked that he even cares. They’re allies of course, but both he and England know that ally ships are often temporary and hold no true emotional bonds. So this- this is odd.

            But it makes sense. It’s the truest rule of fiction that if you fight someone long enough, you fall in love with them. Or at least make _amour_ to them.

France really misses that glass of wine. But he supposes that, if such a thing _were_ to occur, it would not be the worst thing to happen in these trenches.

            He finishes up cleaning the wound, examining England’s sturdily build and scarred chest for wounds as he unwraps the gauze. The worst of it is by far on his shoulder, but there are others too – old scars (France gave him some of those- he remembers, and part of him wants to smile but he can’t), and new cuts. A bullet’s grazed his side, and there’s a slash from a blade near his hip that France fails to fathom how it got there that recently. No one was using swords now, not even bayonets were in use much these days. Perhaps England had been assaulted but one of the cooks earlier for blowing up the kitchen with the waste of perfectly good ingredients he liked to call cooking.

But France tears himself away from that, and tells himself to focus one what’s happening now. “Angleterre-“ He pauses, looking at his now ally’s vineyard green eyes and seeing him glare. “-Can you move forward?”

            England mutters something about ‘look in a bloody state to do that’ and ‘fucking bleeding like a broken mess of the Byzantine’ and ‘fucking frog’, but France tunes it out. France kneels, sliding his hands under England’s bare back, across scars and pale skin, to hold him up and pull him off the wall of the trench. England swears at him, but France just smiles, because he is coated in dirt and dust and blood, but England reminds of time that have come to pass, of times which seem easier now that he looks back.

Regardless of his protests, England shifts forwards and lifts his arm to allow France to wrap it in almost-white gauze, only slightly tainted by nearby dirt.

            He wraps the wound, England stiff and unmoving in his arms, wincing when France’s fingers brush over a wound. But he does not yell, does not swear at France, just stares ahead at the other side of the trench, warm breath sweeping over France when he leans in a bit close, gaze occasionally drifting to France, before quickly shifting his gaze away if he sees France returning the look. He is still, a stone statue with wide eyes.

It takes a while, a time filled with awkward silences where France notices all the things he could insult about England (there’s a lot) but does not, because he does not want to ruin this, this one quiet moment in their loud, bloody and rampant history. He does not talk because England is hurt, but also because he is tired, because war and love are on the two opposite sides of emotion and going back and forth is starting to become exhausting.

Eventually France finishes, pulling away and tying off the last of the once near-white (now a dark shade of red) roll of gauze, finding his hands empty and uncertain of what to discuss, other than to insult England and seeing where it goes, like he usually does. Usually it is best to leave the injured to sleep, but they can’t afford sleep now, especially not England. He has troops to rally, battles to fight, military tactics to improve.

            But instead he just sits lies there, eyes fluttering open occasionally, blacking in and out of sleep. And France doesn’t say anything. The dirt is ruining his beautiful clothing and it’s yet again England’s fault, but France is not thinking of that.

Instead, he is staring at England, and remembering what happened at Verdun. He remembers a similar situation- he was not as hurt as England is now, he lost less men- but he was wounded, and England helped him (albeit with a barrage of insults and his awful fashion). England left soon afterwards though, stating something about needing to get back to his regiment, and France remembers just sitting there, staring at the end of a trench (a different one, but it didn’t really matter- they all look the same) and thinking. Thinking of the past, of Napoleon and conquests and alliances and Russia and Paris and grand fields to drink wine and eat bread and cheese while watching the star-struck sun set. He thought of his world, how it had changed, how just a century ago he’d been on a glorious conquest of Europe, and now he sat, in a trench, alone. He thought of the rest of the world, of Amérique and his revolution, of Spain and his crises, of Prussia and his bloody fucking war. He thought of England, and how he hadn’t wanted him to leave.

            France has never been one to lie to himself. It does no good, and, if England was the perfect case study, only leads to some angry, miserable combination of repression and depression.

So, he does not lie to himself when he looks at England, beat up and crumbling but not broken, and thinks he is beautiful.

            England’s eyes are open now, blankly staring at him with an almost curious tinge in his gaze.

“France-“ He pauses, thinking over his words. His eyebrows furrow in a typically ridiculous fashion, fists curling in the dirt as he stares up at France with curiosity that reminds France of the first time they met, long ago, before they even hated each other.

            “ _Oui_?” France replies, transfixed.

“Do we love?” He is pushing himself up now, so he isn’t leaning too hard against the wall. He winces, but does not falter. “Is it possible- that you or I- a nation, a responsibility and collectivity of our people- do we love, or do we simply _be?_ You’ve said you fall in love three hundred and sixty five times a year- what of that? Are you simply a liar?”

            France stares at him. “Angleterre, are you drunk?” That would explain a lot, actually. (If that is the case, France is going to demand he share whatever he’s drinking)

“I wish, but the only thing we have to drink is shit coffee.” England replies, glaring because he cannot do much else, until he suddenly seems to remember himself, grabbing France by the hand and gripping it with force France did not know the fatally wounded possessed (then again, this is England, so perhaps he should have seen that coming)

            “But France, honestly, tell me.” He asks, almost begging, but not, because he is England, and to beg would be below his consideration of himself. There’s an unsaid please somewhere in there, he knows, but France does not ask for it, only leaning forwards until his forehead is nearly touching England’s.

He pauses to wipe away a dot of red, pulling back again.

“Well, Angleterre, if it really fascinates you so much, I don’t like to be called a liar. I fall in love with people, I fall in love with the world- as hard as a love it is these days. We are nations, but we stand as _les humains,_ too. Of course we fall in love, and of course we fall in love with the wrong people. Just as we bleed for ourselves and scar from hitting the edge of the table or, in your case, burning down the whole of your capital with your cooking-“ England glares again “-We love for ourselves. To say otherwise would be silly, but I suppose that means I should expect it from you. What did you spend the last two thousand years thinking of? The best ways to cook tea?”

“You don’t cook tea, you boil and drink it, you fucking imbecilic continental. I spent the last two thousand years building the greatest empire to ever see the sun whilst you drank wine and ate cheese and made love to strangers in the backs of bars.” Is all England says, spitting the words out and staring him straight into the eye.

            “And why do you think I asked?” He says, as if the answer is obvious.

“That-“ France says with a melodramatic pause and a lost smile. “-I do not know.”

            England looks at him as if the answer is obvious, painfully so, and grabs France weakly by the shoulder, meeting his gaze with fiery, hard-glazed coldness and persistence that France knows all (perhaps too much so) well.

“You should.” He says, a mumble under his breath “-You really should.”

And after that, he says nothing else, breathing in deeply and wiping his lips of blood.

            France runs his fingers over those lips, hand drifting deftly to tilt England’s chin and lean forwards.

“But if I must theorise, I-” France says, keeping his thumb on England’s lip, feeling his neck heat up under France’s fingers, “-Would like to know why you are so concerned as to who I love all of the sudden.”

            England’s eyes widen, jaw dropping. “I just- I don’t bloody care- it’s just I can’t- my boys are dead and I just- I don’t bloody understand what’s going on and this whole fucking war- with us- with _you_ -“ He cuts himself off.

France kisses him, right then and there, knees braced on the dirt of a trench, kisses him over his fingers with a chastity he wasn’t aware he held for anyone he intended to kiss romantically, not touching England for fear of feeling him flinch under his touch.

He pulls away, just enough to press his lips to his mortal rival’s neck, pull away and whisper to him, stare into his eyes with grin set certainty.

           “Angleterre, it is alright. You are alright. It will be alright.” He says, a hand on his longstanding enemy’s cheek, with resolution in his voice he fears he does not have in his heart. “ _We_ will be alright.”

England continues to stare at him as if he has suddenly suggested a cavalry charge as their best military option.

            “If it makes you feel better, you are the only one I have ever kissed in a trench.” France says, dusting off his too muddy clothes as he gets up to leave, figuring any more of this heart-to-heart will result in England hitting him, or perhaps ruin his well-earned reputation as an unsentimental pervert.

            “Wait- what are you fucking doing- you better not just leave me hanging like that- fuck did I just say that-“ England is stuttering again, perhaps from blood loss. France does not tell him he is simply going to search for more supplies.

Instead, he leans down taking England’s hand in his.

            “Angleterre, I would never.” He fakes offense at such an accusation, smiling wryly and winking, meeting his enemy’s bewildered gaze with a slight touch to his hand.

“There will be time, my dear friend, my mortal enemy. It may seem like the end of the world but-“

            He looks out onto the sky, the war torn but beautiful land of his country, at the shine of England’s gun, at the rising sun, stars leaving the sky in favour of the bright warm light that almost reaches his face.

It is his country, and he would never give it up.

            “-It is not.”

And he goes off to find more supplies, leaving England for only a fraction of time, because he knows, eventually, they'll find each other again.

**Author's Note:**

> Historical Notes:  
> -The Battle of the Somme or the Somme Offensive took place from July 1st to November 18th 1916, a battle fought by the British Empire and France against the German Empire, during the First World War. Due to a lack of modernisation, only beginning recruits in 1916, along with an overestimation of their shelling capabilities, the British lost over 50 000 men on the first day of the offensive, along with making multiple tactical mistakes such as leaving their infantry undefended for a time.  
> -The French suffered a similar setback at the Battle of Verdun (Starting on February 21st ) earlier that year, with the Germans gaining initial traction and success and the French suffering heavy casualties.  
> -The French eventually won at Verdun on the 21st of December 1916, the battle being one of the longest in the entire war. The British and French did not succeed in a decisive victory at the Somme, and the legacy of the battle has been highly debated.  
> -The British and French had an alliance before World War 1, but the two were shaky allies at best, and British involvement in the First World War was only secured with the German invasion of the neutral Belgium.


End file.
